


The Monster Bar

by Celebrimbor1999



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PHSE, Secret Agency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor1999/pseuds/Celebrimbor1999
Summary: The Monster Bar, as it’s affectionately known by its patrons, is an amazing place. A neutral place for any supernatural entity to meet up, have a few drinks, and not be judged by the bartender who swears he’s seen worse things than too much body hair and human combustion. But to PHSE, an agency devoted to the Protection of Humans from Supernatural Entities, it is a source of headaches and frustration.





	1. The First Haunting

_“Psst.”_

“ _Psssst!”_

Agent Dimanche sat up suddenly, looking around the room frantically. Where was he? This wasn’t the PHSE barracks, or his cosy apartment.

“ _Pssssssst! Hey!”_

It was the triple locked door, alarmed tripwire, and creepy artwork that reminded him. “Ooohhh…” He sighed. He was still at that bar. Mary Moe wanted him to check out rumours of supernatural occurrences on his way home. His superior had lost her mind, honestly. Despite the strange clientele, the only monsters the bartender entertained were those in the frankly ultra-surrealist paintings.

“ _Hey, wake up!”_

His head shot to the left. The cupboard door was open a crack, and a pale white hand curled around the edge. It had a fuzzy quality, like a photo that hadn’t been developed properly.

“ _Are you awake?”_

Agent Dimanche rubbed his eyes. Pinched his arm. Pulled out his gun and shot the horrific painting opposite. Nope, the hand was still there. Absentmindedly, he blinked five times in quick succession. The camera located in his contact lens activated.

“Uh, yeah, I’m awake.”

The face of a young boy, pale, drawn and slightly blurry, came out from behind the door. Its eyes, unlike the rest of him, were clearly glowing a bright green. It was the same boy as in the painting he just shot.

It smiled. “ _Oh good! This is my first ever haunting, so….”_ Twisting a little on one slightly transparent foot, the ghost looked up sheepishly. _“I-I’m just gonna go ahead. Okay?”_

This had to be a dream. Agent Dimanche nodded absentmindedly. A ghost. A ghost wants to practise it’s haunting on him. A ghost pulling an amazing Porky Pig ‘oh shucks’ impression wanted to practise it’s haunting on him.

“ _Okay!”_ The ghost cleared its non-existent throat and pulled out a pair of chains from nowhere.

“ _Ooooooooooo!”_ It moaned, rattling the chains creepily. The ends of the chains hit the walls, causing little dents in the plaster. _Hope I don’t have to pay for that… If any of this is even real…_

Seeing the lack of fear, the ghost decided to up the ante. “ _OOOOOOoooooOOOOO”_ It shook the chains harder, until they were whipping the ceiling. Dust fell from the gouges that revealed the rafters.

Even that didn’t faze the agent. Who thought he was still trapped in a dream. Or hallucination.

_“OooooooooooooOOOOOOO!”_ The ghost disappeared briefly before crawling out of the painting, hair suddenly growing longer to hang over glowing eyes. Ectoplasm dripped down the walls. Agent Dimanche just blinked.

_“OoooooooOOOOOOOOooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooo!”_ Moaned the ghost, who began to sound like a firetruck. Flipping itself over, it scrambled up the wall to the ceiling like a less creepy version of the girl from the Exorcist. It reached the opposite fall, before falling onto the suitcase below. The ghsot rummaged through the Agent’s belongings, tearing pages out of the single book he bought, throwing clothes around the room, emptying toothpaste all over the windows.

Agent Dimanche wondered when this dream would end. Honestly, this was just getting absurd. The paranoia in his mission briefing must have gotten to him.

The ghost had one last thing to try.

“ _OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”_ It screeched, the force blowing back the agent’s very not regulation haircut.

“ _So,”_ The ghost asked once it got its breath back. “ _How’d I do?”_

“Uh…. You mean, out of ten or something?”

“ _Yeah!”_

“Um… 3? Or 4? It was all very cliché, really. Do ghosts watch horror movies?”

“ _Cliché? Cliché!?”_ The ghost was furious. “ _I’ll show you cliché!!”_

Agent Dimanche lost his sheets. And his pants. The ghost’s fury was almost palpable, tearing apart the walls and smashing the windows. It wasn’t until he collided with the remnants of the far wall that Agent Dimanche realised he wasn’t dreaming. The pain in his back was too real.

“Aaarrggghhhh!!”

Scrambling for the handle, he wrenched the door open and bolted down the stairs, screaming all the way. No secret agent training prepares you for a haunting. And Agent Dimanche specialised in werewolves and vampires, not intangible kid-ghosts! On the way he passed the bartender, who looked supremely unruffled considering the destruction to the upper levels of his bar.

“Everything okay sir? Is the bed not to your liking?” The man asked in his crisp British accent.

The agent froze, looking at the man like he was insane. “Your building is haunted! A ghost attacked me! He looked like the boy in the painting but he was a ghost!”

“A little boy?” The bartender frowned. “Oh you have quite the overactive imagination sir. The boy in the painting is all grown up now. Enjoying some time off with his family in the Bahamas.”

“But he was there!” The agent said desperately. “He tore apart the room, he-he climbed out of his frame, he even, he even put my toothpaste all over the windows!”

“Toothpaste? Over the windows? Are you feeling well sir?” The bartender looked quite concerned, but behind him on the stairs, pale feet began to descend.

“He’s behind you!” The agent screamed, turning around and running straight into the wall.

“Sir, please, calm down! Everything is fine, I assure you.”

“Nooooooo!!!” Agent Dimanche turned and ran to the far window, not even stopping to open it before he hurled himself through the glass. As he ran away screaming, the bartender turned to the contrite little boy behind him.

“Did you really have to destroy his room?”

“ _Weeellll….”_ The ghost trailed. “ _He didn’t think I was scary enough, and I got a little… angry…”_

Sighing, the bartender lifted the ghost and carried him upstairs. “Next time you decide to haunt someone, please let me know beforehand. And don’t destroy the room.”

The ghost grinned unrepentantly. “ _No promises!”_

Another sigh. “I think I need a drink.”


	2. Don't Listen to Drunks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, never trust the drunk guy sitting in the corner. You never know how long it's been since he showered...

Moaning, groaning and general unhappiness made Agent Vert turn away from the glasses he was polishing. Seemed like the perpetual drunk had finally come out of his corner. He was hunched over the counter, thin hands sliding uselessly over the wood. Now that he was standing, the agent could see that what he thought was a shirt was actually some kind of nightdress or toga. The gold patterned fabric was covered in spilt drinks and vomit, and there were long tattered feathers cught in the loose folds. With the long, matted, possibly-blonde-under-the-grime-and-dirt hair, the drunk looked like a Roman god who’d gone ten rounds with a chicken.

And he’d asked for another drink.

Vert glanced at the closed office door. The bartender had gone in almost two hours ago, taking advantage of the late hour and scattered patrons. He’d given explicit instructions to not go making any drinks (turns out bartenders can be _very_ particular with who uses their equipment) but it would be just one… and it’s a drunk! He’s not going to ask for something overly complicated. And the bartender wouldn’t be out for ages…

Mind made up, Vert turned to the drunk. “Of course, sir. What would you like?”

“Her-Hucup! Hercules’ Olympian la… laa-aa… laaa-aaaaa…” The drunkard swayed, nodded and slipped to the floor.

“Sir? Sir, are you okaAAEEK!”

Vert jolted back as the drunk’s head popped up.

“Lager! Ol-ym-pia-an lager!”

The agent sighed and turned to the beers on tap. He hadn’t had the chance to examine it properly, but now that he could… Not that he was an alcoholic, but Vert was familiar with his alcohol, and he’d never heard of these brands before. _Grimhilde Premium Brew, Ursula’s FiveX, Great Underworld Brewer & Co… Is this for real? I mean, I recognise the names, but the idea that they have their own _breweries?! _Really?!_

“I wan’ ma drink!”

Vert jerked his attention back to the present and searched for the right label. _Olympian… Olympian... ah, Olympian!_ He poured a perfect glass of lager and passed it to the drunk.

As soon as the glass touched his hand, the man threw it over his shoulder where it smashed across an impressionist painting of a bleeding angel.

“Oops. Sorry. Slipp’ry fingers.” The man didn’t look too sorry.

Turning around to pour a new glass, Vert swore under his breath. He shouldn’t have to deal with this! He’s an elite senior agent for PHSE, a Navy Seal prodigy! Trained in multiple fighting styles, languages, and ways of seducing women! An American James Bond! And he’s stuck serving dirty drunks in some remote corner of the US. Why the higher ups think that _this_ is the hub of supernatural activity in the northern hemisphere, he had no clue. Obviously, Agent Dimanche had finally cracked. Other than the folklore theme, the bar was perfectly normal.

The agent set the glass down with a little more force than absolutely necessary. “Will this suffice, sir? Or would you like a straw?”

The drunk sniffed the glass once, twice, and then looked up. Vert didn’t like the glint in his eye. “Nah, I think I’m feelin’ like somethin’ a bit… _stronger.”_

_Of course he would._ “What would you like, then… _sir.”_

“Ya know, I’ve ne’er seen you round ‘ere before. Ya new?” The man settled himself more comfortably on the stool.

“I’ve just finished my bartending course,” Vert said, diving into his cover story, “And I was looking for somewhere to get some experience. I’m planning on applying for a job in New York in six months or so, get further away from my parents.”

“Overbearin’?” The drunk asked in a voice that suggested he understood.

“Overbearingly disappointed, if that’s a thing.”

“Well, their son leavin’ tha Navy Seals to tend bars wou’d cause jus’ a _couple_ o’ issues.” He was smiling unrepentantly, like he didn’t just make Vert’s heart leap from his chest.

“We-,” Vert coughed, tried again, “Well, I wasn’t quite making it – didn’t like the boat – but, yes, Father has been disappointed ever since.”

The man slammed a hand on the bar. “Pour me a drink then, an’ we’ll toast!”

“What would you like?”

“Le’s start easy… How ‘bout _Death in the Afternoon?”_

Vert nodded and pulled a short champagne flute from the shelf. It actually looked like a wine glass that was missing half the glass. He stopped short when reaching for the absinthe. He had never seen _bright blue_ absinthe before.

“Tha’ one! _La Fe_ _é Bleue!”_ The drunk pointed madly.

_The Blue Fairy indeed,_ Vert thought as he poured a jigger of the liquor into the glass. “I take it you have a specific champagne you’d like with it?”

“Novem shou’d have some o’ Melusine Chardonnay in the fridge.”

The champagne was also blue. Vert didn’t know if he should be surprised. The finished product looked almost ethereal as the liquid at the bottom became less opaque than the liquid above. “Here’s your Death in the Afternoon.” He slid it over.

And the drunk downed it like a shot.

“Ahhhh…” He sighed, blue drops leaking from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and dripping onto the already-stained toga. “Tha’ was good.” Then a thought occurred. “Bu’ we di’n’t toast!”

“That’s okay sir…”

“No! We nee’ ta toast! Ta overbearin’ daddies!”

“Okay then sir,” Vert soothed. “Would you like another Afternoon.”

“Nup.”

_Of course not._

“I wan’ a Death’s Duchess!”

“A… Death’s Duchess, sir?” Vert had never heard of that.

“I’s wine an’ pomOgranite juice.”

“Ah. A Ruby Duchess sir.”

“Nup.” The drunk shook his head decisively. “I’s got Persephone’s juice. I’s Death’s Duchess.”

“Okay then sir…” _Just let the drunk believe what he wants…_ The pomegranate juice was also int eh fridge, and low and behold, the label on the glass bottle read _Persephone’s Promegranate Juice: The taste won’t let you leave!_ Vert collected another champagne flute from the shelf and poured four fluid ounces of the strange blue champagne into the glass, following it up with the red juice. The resulting drink was a deep purple colour, and Vert could almost see why the drunk gave it such a name. _Death’s Duchess indeed…_

“Here you go sir.”

The drunk took a sip, nodded, and gulped it down like it was water. This time, however, he was less neat, and liquid poured over his chin and down his front, looking like a dried-out bloodstain. Vert flinched.

“Good. You pass’d ma test.”

“Your test?” _What was the drunk going on about now?_

“Yup. Tha’ only thin’ to toast wit’ it a _Blood Moon._ An’ you’re gonn’ make yourself one too.”

Vert finally gave into the urge to look at the office door. The drunk hadn’t exactly been quiet, and it’s been a while since he’d seen the bartender. Mixing a couple of really simple drinks was okay, an easy cleanup, but whatever this drunk wanted… And he wanted him to drink it?!

“Don’ worry bout the stuffy one wit’ the bri’ish accen’.” The drunk waved a hand. “I’ll smooth i’ over.”

_Well, it’s been a long night… so why not?_ “Well then, you might have to explain exactly what a Blood Moon is.”

“Ever made a Blue Lagoon?”

Verte was getting where this was going. “Yes, they’re very popular.”

“Now, a Blood Moon has Jezibaba vodka, and Carpathian Red instead of tha’ Blue Curaqua-shiz.”

“I believe you mean Blue Curaçao, but I understand what you’re saying.”

This time, Vert pulled down two highball glasses, and filled them with ice. He couldn’t find the vodka until the drunk pointed to the back of the bar, where the wall was covered in glass-fronted shelves. The bartender had mentioned the display when Vert first arrived – apparently the man liked to save decorated bottles (or decorate the bottles himself) to put on display once empty. As it turns out, only the top shelves held empty bottles – the shelves below held the more expensive or _interesting_ liqueur. Vert put his suspicions aside for the moment as he reached for the bottle that looked like it was being held by a chicken. The claws wrapped almost all the way around the bottle, leaving a space for a rather gruesome image of an old lady, and the words _Jezibaba Vodka_ across the mortar she was standing in. He poured 50mL of the liqueur into the glasses and added 150mL of lemonade. At least, he thought it was lemonade. And the drunk thought it was lemonade. But why would _Cinderella_ approve of lemonade? He shrugged. The bar was strange.

Using a glass rod, Vert stirred them swiftly. He _really_ didn’t like using the glass rods, but the bartender had seemed insulted by the idea of using metal. The Carpathian Red that he added next was from another decorated bottle. This one looked more handmade though, with bright red paint dripping down the otherwise clear bottle, almost covering the archaic style writing of the label. The name seemed familiar, as if Vert had read it somewhere else. He drizzled 25mL of the liquid over the ice/vodka/lemonade mixed, and swiftly cut up the blood orange that he’d found in a storage bin in the pantry. Apparently, the strange red liqueur was made from these oranges, but the drunk didn’t know anything more than that.

As he pushed the slices over the rims, Vert absentmindedly sucked the juice off his finger. And froze. Nodded to the drunk. Walked over to the sink. And proceeded to throw up over the used glasses. The juice tasted like copper and spice, turning his stomach until he’d thrown up both dinner and lunch, and he would have continued with his stomach lining if the drunk hadn’t appeared at his elbow with a glass of water.

“Prolly shou’da warn’d ya. Ne’er eat Carpathian blood oranges straigh’.”

Vert had to pour himself more water before he could bring himself to leave the sink. “What the hell is in those oranges?!” He looked over at the finished drinks on the bar in distrust. If that’s what the orange tastes like… the drink might make him so sick he’ll turn inside out.

“Lotsa stuff… tha’ guy tha’ grows ‘em water’s ‘em wid some weird stuff.” The drunk pulled the unresisting agent around the bar and sat him down, before going back for the drinks, then the ingredients to make them. “Now, a toast!”

“No way am I drinking that!”

“Yes. You are.” The drunk pushed it into his hand, dunked a straw into the glass, and pushed it to his lips. “It tastes fine!”

And it really did.

It had a bit of a burn, but the drink was surprisingly sweet. Before he knew it, Vert had finsieh the whole glass.

The drunk watched him carefully. “Good, ain’ it?” At the agent’s nod, the man laughed and pushed the used glasses together. “Make us anudder one, an’ we’ll have tha’ toast!”

Once they were both holding a full glass, the drunk hoisted it high and proclaimed, “To overbearin’ daddies, an’ stupid brothers!”

“To overbearing fathers.” Vert said in solidarity, and they both gulped down their Blood Moons.

Somehow, the agent was pulled into making another, and then another. A patron with some extreme body hair walked on over with his equally hairy friend, a tall, willowy woman and her cadre of even taller willowy women followed and suddenly they’re all drinking, toasting stupid fathers and fleabitten brothers, or fleabitten fathers and brothers who were, really, just great big bags of *****. At one point, Vert found himself throwing the smaller bar knives around the room, and everyone cheering at it speared the angel painting right between the legs (except for the drunk, who crossed his legs and went pale). A short fellow with anger problems kept kicking people in the shins. The willowy women began to sway like actual willow trees. The hairy dude howled. And on it went, until a door opened, and the bartender stood there in all his proper British fury.

“What is going on here?”

The room froze. Silence. If there had been a record player, it would have screeched. And then there was a mass exodus to the door, leaving behind a ruffled looking agent, a drink-covered drunk and, inexplicably, a whole heap of silver coins, gold nuggets and willow leaves.

“Now…” The bartender tapped his foot. “Did I not say that you were _not_ allowed to touch any of the equipment behind the bar Mr Johns? You could dispense from the tap, but you were _not_ to mix any drinks unless I was here to supervise.”

“Weeelllll…” Vert slurred. “Ma frein’ ‘ere want’d a drink…”

“Yes, speaking of Gabe.” The ire was now turned on the stupid looking drunk. “Guess who I just finished a call with?”

Horror filled the man’s eyes, and he immediately sobered. “… Dad…?”

“Yes. Dad.” A voice came from the front door, where a man with a neatly trimmed beard and tailored suit leaned in the doorway. “Time to go Gabriel.”

The drunk – Gabriel – made a bid for freedom, leaping towards the office and the back door that lay within, but was thwarted by the quick reflexes of the bartender, who neatly caught the dirty man and deposited him next to his father. “There you go Theos. He’ll be back within the week if you don’t keep a close eye on him.”

Theos sighed. “That gives me a week to sober him up, get him clean. Lord knows,” and here, he grinned like it was an inside joke, “he might go into shock without seeing his favourite bartender on a regular basis.”

Said bartender laughed and ushered the men out the door. “Have a good night Theos. And Gabe, see you next week.”

Gabriel stared over his father’s shoulder, eyes wide and pleading, as Theos began to lay into him. “You’re a fool, you know that? A stubborn fool! A stupid, heretical, sloshed, under-educated fool! Oh wait, you can’t use _that_ excuse can you, because I paid for you to go to CAMBRIDGE!” And on and on, until they were out of earshot.

“Now, what to do with you…” The bartender turned to the agent, who began to feel quite sick.

“Ummmm… bed?” He asked hopefully.

“No. Can you explain why there are knives in the paintings? _My_ knives?”

“Uh….” Verte was sweating now. “The-the guys wanted to see-see me… throw? I-I couldn’t use my gun, because Lundi gets really upset if I use my guns indoors, but I get around that by using them in the training rooms, and I don’t knowwhyI’mtellingyouthisbutMYHEADHURTSANDITSREALLYREALLYREALLY--”

Beloved coolness.

The bartender put down the bucket and stared at the now sopping wet agent. “Feeling better?”

Vert nodded.

“Good. Because you are going to leave. Your belongings will be sent to the address you gave me when you began your employment here, and you are not going to come near my bar again. Understood?”

Vert’s mouth dropped open. “But-but-but-” He couldn’t be thrown out! He had a job, a mission! And even if it was a stupid mission, he couldn’t have it end like this! He’d be the laughing stock of PHSE!

“But nothing. Should you get another job as a bartender, perhaps refrain from drinking half a bottle of their most expensive liqueur.”

“But… Gabe….”

An eyebrow rose. “Gabriel? He’s the bar drunk. He’s been here for so long that he’s practically part of the décor.” The eyes rose to look at the emasculate angel painting. “This is the first time he’s left in eleven months.” And the eyes were back on him. “I’d expect this kind of behaviour out of him, not an ex-Navy Seal.”

And with that, he was pushed out of the bar, door slammed in his face. Agent Vert was stunned.

“You have three hours to get off my property or I sic my dog on you. I am counting.”

Vert ran.

_He has a dog?_

Inside, the bartender turned to the mess that was his bar. “Of course this has to happen tonight of all nights…” He sighed. Then he saw the empty bottle of ‘lemonade’. “And they drank all of my cleaning fluid!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudo's to those who got my references!


	3. An Agent Walks Into the Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the bartender laughs and walks under it. Maybe visiting the bar after a short person convention isn't the best idea

Agent Jaune walked into the bar and found himself flat on his back. The bar was a lot lower than he expected.

“Oh, so sorry about that!” The bartender walked over, wiping his hands on a towel. “We had the Biannual International Convention for Vertically Challenged Individuals yesterday, so everything was brought down. Haven’t had a chance to pull everything back up.”

Taking the offered hand, the agent stood. He knew all about the short person convention. The biannual meet up for the leprechauns, imps and dwarves of the supernatural world. Agent Onze, the shortest agent in PHSE, had infiltrated the convention, but no one had heard from him since.  

“Was the convention a success?” He asked politely.

“Well, there were less plans for world domination this time.” The bartender said casually, wandering back over to the bar.

“World-world domination?!” Agent Jaune yelped. This is something Mary Moe would need to know about. “What were they going to do?”

“Just a culling of all persons over the height of 4’6”. At least, that’s what they’d planned last time.”

“And… this time?” The agent was almost afraid to ask.

“Luxury condos for short people. They actually had some very good ideas. One of them had plans for specially designed golf carts and everything.”

Agent Jaune slowly walked across the room, taking in the hip-high bar, knee high barstools and –

**BANG**

Very, _very_ low hanging lights.

“Oh!” The bartender turned a crank and the lights rose till they were at the same level as the rafters. “Sorry, I keep forgetting that not everyone can dodge the lights. Gotten into the habit of doing it myself, I guess.”

Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to stop seeing double, Agent Jaune wondered if he’d survive this assignment.

“So is there something I can help you with?”

_Hmm?_

“No one comes to a bar this early in the morning. Did you need something?”

“Ah yes, actually. Just, seeing if you’d seen someone.” The agent took a seat at the bar, and immediately felt like a middle-schooler with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“You know…” The bartender began, walking back around the bar, “Why don’t you help me bring out the taller stools, and then we can talk.”

_Okay…? Not foreboding at all._

Nodding, the agent went to agree but was interrupted by the sudden entrance of two _very_ different women. One was tall, slim and pale, with dark hair swinging behind her and blood red lips curving into a smile. The other was shorter, stockier, and tan, with bright eyes, a mass of curly hair and pronounced canines that flashed as she laughed.

“ _Victoire,_ why do you torture me so?!”

The pale one held a had to her mouth as she giggled. “Because it’s amusing to see you all _hot and bothered.”_

The agent’s eyes narrowed. _What accent was that?_

“Victoire, Romy, please, if you need a room, there are perfectly serviceable ones upstairs, but not in my bar!”

Victoire laughed. “Yes Romy, let us not upset the poor Englishman’s posh sensibilities.”

The bartender huffed. “This is a bar, not a club.”

“Not on Thursdays!” The girls interrupted cheerfully.

“AND,” He continued, “You will take your cute, fornicating little behinds some place where I don’t have to watch others get some while I have none.”

“Awwww…” Victoire purred, walking over to drape herself across the man’s back. “You want some company? Uncle is always looking for some… _new blood.”_

Slipping away, the bartender gave her a deadpan look. “You can tell your uncle that I have no desire to move to move to the Carpathians and join his harem. Not to mention, I am perfectly happy being straight.”

“Not on Thursdays!” The girls chorused.

Waving a stern finger, the bartender walked away, shouting over his shoulder, “We don’t talk about Thursday!”

“Uhhhh…” Agent Jaune was confused. “I-I’m just gonna… I’ll go give him a hand.”

And he walked away at a fast pace.

“Do you think he’s gonna remember the bar?”

**BANG**

**“** Nope.”

Yet another bruise marking his forehead, the agent slipped into the back room and accepted a stack of stools from the bartender.

“Just ignore those girls. And if they offer to introduce you to one of their friends, don’t accept. You’ll end up dead drunk in a ditch faster than you can say _O Doamne de ce.”_

“Okay…?”

“Really, don’t. They mean well, but they forget that not everyone has their kind of metabolism. Especially Victoire. Very little can get her properly drunk.”

“Uh… duly noted.”

“Anyway, once my bar’s back together, I’ll help you out. You’re looking for your friend?”

“Uh, yeah. He was going to be passing through here last night, but he never showed up for work.”

“Is he about 4 foot, wearing a jersey with an 11, and goes about telling everyone he’s Agent Onze when he gets really drunk?”

“That… sounds like him.” _Why, oh why did he drink? He’s a horrible drunk!_

“Well, you don’t need to worry about him. He made friends with Doc and his six brothers.”

“Ah. So… he did better than you?” Agent Jaune teased tentatively. That’s a normal reaction to being told your friend had gone home with seven dwarves, right?

A finger was waved in his face this time. “I don’t go for people who barely reach my waist.”

Back in the bar, the agent froze. He barely felt the bartender walk into his back.

“Whoa, whats… Ah.”

Victoire was holding up the bar. And when he said, ‘holding up’, he didn’t mean in a metaphorical sense. He meant it in a very physical sense, in the sense that she was holding the entire, at least five metres long bar to her chest without any apparent effort. Holding the bar and _laughing_ as her (girl?)friend was moving legs of the bar into position. The solid wood legs, that helped to support the bar and the cabinets that were normally beneath. The eight legs, that she was holding over one shoulder without any apparent effort. And he doesn’t mean one leg, he means _all eight legs._

In silence, the agent watched as the bar was set down, and the solid wood cabinets, all filled with all manner things secured behind metal and glass frontage were _carried_ out of another room and placed under the bar. And the girls were carrying these _individually._

“Ah, perfect timing!” Romy walked over and took the stools from his unresisting arms.

The bartender, his load removed, led him over to the now-assembled bar and handed him a glass of something. He downed it without even asking what it was, but the burn of alcohol was a comfort.

_“How?!”_ He rasped.

“Victoire is a wrestler, and Romy’s her coach. They can bench-press almost double their weight. I hire them to help me set my bar up for the convention, and then put it to rights afterwards.”

“But-but Victoire can’t be more that 150 pounds! At the most, she could do 215 pounds! And-and Romy, I mean, she can’t be much different?”

“Nah sugar, I’m about 170 pound.” Romy came and leant on the bar next to the nervous-wreck-that-was-once-a-very-highly-trained-agent. “I can do almost 300. 295, to be exact.”

“And I,” Victoire appeared on his other side, “Can press 260.”

“But-that-that’s impossible!” Agent Jaune stared at the pale, slim individual to his right. She looked like she should be a supermodel, not a _wrestler._ And Romy, the first thing that came to mind when you looked at her wasn’t wrestler.

“Well, what about you?” He turned to the bartender.

“Oh, don’t look at me! I don’t go to the gym. I’m a yoga kind of guy.”

“Mmmmm…” Romy hummed. “Mum’s a sucker for a good downward dog.”

Another finger was waved warningly in her direction. “I am not getting in between your parents. Your mother is strong enough, but your father can press twice as much as you.”

And that was it.

As darkness filled his vision, and strong hands caught him about his middle, Agent Jaune had only one thought.

_They could snap me like a twig._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was a little more... suggestive. Tell me what you think! And maybe later I'll have the story of the unfortunate Agent Onze...


	4. Pretty People are Pointy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty people are pointy. And intimidating. And like to drink tea, as poor Agent Rose finds out. But just what is Maleficent's coat made out of...?

Agent Rose was bored. For a possible hub of supernatural activity, the bar was almost suspiciously boring. She’d been working here for two weeks now, and she hadn’t seen a single fang, or heard the tiniest tinkle of chains, or served anyone under the height of five feet. And to make today even worse, she was working the twilight shift – no one was going to come in at ten in the evening on a Wednesday.

She was so close to falling asleep. The wood of the bar was worn smooth by years of patrons, and in her bored state, it felt like a feather pillow. Her head dipped lower. The bartender wouldn’t notice if she had just a _little_ nap… Of course, that’s when the door sprang open with a bang, lights flickering ominously.

Later, the agent would _not_ mention the almost-detrimental-to-her-self-esteem loosening of her bowels in her report.

Passing through the doorway was a very tall, very pale woman. Her high-collared, pointy hemmed coat was a matte black that seemed to suck in all the light in the room. Points seemed to be a very important part of her aesthetic – her shoes were pointy, her coat was pointy, her intricately braided black hair ended in two points at her hips. When she smiled at the dumbfounded agent, sharp teeth came down over blood red lips. Her eyeliner was very much on point, making her green eyes glow. (At least, she thought it was the defined eyeliner that did it. People’s eyes didn’t normally glow, after all) As she moved, lime green flashed in the lining of her coat and the soles of her shoes.

Agent Rose was so caught up by all the black and lime and _points_ that she almost missed the man who came in afterwards. He wasn’t quite as pointy as his companion – where her sharpness brought to mind bat wings, he was like feathers, deceptively soft in their sharpness. The starkness of his black leather jacket, pants and boots were softened by the deep green shirt and copper scarf. His cheekbones were defined, even more so by the dark slicked back hair that seemed to explode in a feathery madness from the half-tail it was pulled into. Dark feathery tattoos spread across his forehead and down his cheeks, framing eyes that shined like pirate gold.

The two made an imposing couple, so the agent could be excused from not noticing the bartender’s presence at her side till he spoke.

“Maleficent! Making an entrance as always!” The man bowed before the imposing woman.

The woman laughed throatily, holding out her hand. “You flatter me, my dear bartender. How has life been keeping you? Not too busy I hope.”

“Never!” He exclaimed, kissing the offered hand lightly before turning to Maleficent’s companion. “Diaval. It is certainly a pleasure to see you.”

Agent Rose didn’t quite want to know what the bartender was implying there, but something in her chest died at Diaval’s reply.

“Likewise, dearest.” Unlike his companion, Diaval stepped right into the other man’s space and kissed him on both cheeks, hands over shoulders. “It has been much too long since I last saw you.” And then his eyes caught her dumbfounded gaze.

“And who is _that?”_

The Agent blinked. “Me? O-oh.” _Pretty man. Pretty man getting closer. Pretty man is REALLY CLOSE_

“Yes, you. You weren’t here when I delivered the last shipment. Dearest, are you cheating on me?” Diaval said dejectedly, slinging an arm over her shoulders and pulling her against his well-defined chest.

“Oh, uh, there – there’s no cheating involved – going on,” Agent Rose stuttered, “At least, not from me, I – I just work here, I’m new, and _you’re_ new, and you are just very, very pretty and I just – I can’t believe how pointy – NICE – how nice you look, you really…” She trailed off at the look in Maleficent’s eyes, unconsciously shrinking into Diaval’s chest. “Sorry.”

_Oh my gosh, I did not just SQUEAK_

“Your new little bar-candy likes to run her mouth, doesn’t she dearest?” The man was squeezing her again, but it wasn’t nice anymore. More like an anaconda lovingly squeezing the life out of its dinner.

The bartender sighed. “You can’t blame the girl – being confronted with two remarkable specimens of the human form can do things to a person.” The agent was tugged out of Diaval’s right hold and urged towards the kitchen. “Rosie, why don’t you bring out the tea service?”

“Oh, of – of course sir. Which one would you like?”

“The rose thorn patterned set. But don’t worry about the tea leaves, Diaval has that covered.”

The grin the leather clad man flashed made her clutch the doorframe, and she escaped into the kitchen before she embarrassed herself further.

_What the hell was THAT_

Quiet murmurs could be heard from the main room as she carefully put together the tea service. The trolley was made from a dark wood, like mahogany or ebony, decorated with silvery flourishes and fleur-de-lis. It wasn’t true silver though, but stainless steel polished to a very high shine. The shelves were green-tinted glass.

The tea set the bartender had requested looked striking against the colours of the trolley. Made from white porcelain, the entire set held a thornbush motif painted in dark green, with roses picked out in purple stones. They looked like amethysts but were probably glass. The teapot was the most intricately decorated, with a gold painted thorny vine wrapped around the base creating the legs. In this she poured a single cup of hot water, before putting the kettle on a lower shelf. The plates had the thorn motif around the rims, with a large purple flower in the centre. On these she sat the scones made that morning, already halved, and in simple gold pots was three different types of jam, including the dark blueberry jam she knew the bartender preferred. The cream, sugar and honey went into their respective pots, each embellished with a purple rose on the side and thorny vines around their bases. The tea cups were the least intricate items of the set. The handle was moulded to look like a thorny vine, painted gold, with a single vine around the rim and a purple flower in the bottom of the cup.

All in all, it was a very sophisticated tea set that fit the bar’s guests perfectly.

Carefully, Agent Rose pushed the trolley into the main room, items rattling against the glass. The bartender had moved his guests to a table near the windows. They would have normally been given a beautiful view of the surrounding trees and starry skies, but tonight the cloud cover was strong and dark, the moon a vaguely lighter patch amid the darkness. As she crossed the room, the agent could hear the first few drops of rain hitting the roof.

Conversation stopped as she got closer. When she stepped in between the bartender and Maleficent to set out the black lace tablecloth, the silence seemed deafening. Her hands shook slightly as she set the table, sitting a cup in front of each person, sitting the scone plate in the centre, dispensing the jams and spoons and butter knives. Then it was just the tea pot.

Cautiously, Agent Rose cleared her throat. “Um, what – what tea would you like me to use?”

The table’s occupants seemed the come back to themselves, the bartender blinking rapidly for a moment.

“Oh, my apologies Rosie,” He said sheepishly. “I was just lost in thought.” Turning to Diaval, he asked, “What delicacy have you brought me this time?”

However, it wasn’t Diaval who answered. A pale hand reached into the depths of her pointy coat and emerged with a black jar, stoppered with a faceted green glass stopper. “We have brought you an Aged Shi Hsien.”

The jar was taken with reverence by the bartender, who cradled it in both hands. “Do I even want to ask how old it is?”

Maleficent smirked. “It is old enough to have been served to the kings of China.” She pointed one gold tipped fingernail at the jar, “That is all that is left of the entire batch.”

Diaval leaned in, “It’s different from most Shi Hsien teas, in that it contains original Narcissus petals.”

“Original?” At this, the bartender seemed even more impressed, and he reluctantly passed it over to the agent. “Just five spoons into the pot Rosie.”

Agent Rose sat the strainer into the top of the pot and hesitated. The bartender was leaning forward, watching her hands intently. As she scooped the tea, she was aware of how badly her hands were shaking under the scrutiny. It took several tension strained seconds to dispense the tea leaves and fill the pot with the boiling water. While it steeped, she busied herself with unfolding the tea cosy, setting out the cream and sugar and honey. Six minutes later she was pouring the dark tea through the strainer into each cup.

As she went to put the teapot aside, Maleficent placed a hand on her arm. “Pour a cup for yourself child,” She said, “You deserve to try some after the wonderful work you’ve done putting this spread together for us.”

“Tha—Thank you.” She stuttered. Diaval stood and took her hand, guiding her to the empty seat she hadn’t noticed between Maleficent and himself. The bartender handed her another cup and saucer from the trolley, and she carefully poured herself some tea.

Across from her, the bartender added a single spoon of honey, stirring it well. Maleficent added a few sugar cubes and a small amount of cream. At the agent’s curious glance, she said, “I prefer my tea sweet, especially this kind of aged tea. I would suggest adding at least a little honey to yours – more if you don’t drink tea often.”

Diaval was already drinking his, obviously preferring it straight.

The bartender wordlessly passed her the honey, and she wasted no time adding some to her cup. She cautiously had a sip. Let it settle over her tongue. “Hmmmm.” She hummed quietly. The tea was set down and several more spoonful’s of honey found their way into the cup.

Maleficent laughed. “Not a tea drinker child? Dearest, what have you been teaching her?”

The bartender broke off his impassioned staring contest with Diaval, who had already finished his tea, and glanced guilty at them. “Sorry, what was your question?”

“What have you been teaching… Rosie, was it?”

“Uh, yes, it’s Rosie, and, um, most bars don’t sell tea, do they?” Agent Rose cursed her suddenly twisted tongue. She was fine around other attractive people, but these ones were intimidating.

“This isn’t a normal bar child, but you’re right.” Maleficent stood and stalked to the back of the bar, coat spreading dramatically around her. She leaned to look at bar front, where all the expensive specialty liquor was, and came back with a strange black bottle. Dragon shaped, it was designed to look like it was spouting lime green flames straight up into the air. The flames, it seemed, was the stopper, and the liquid inside was as dark as the glass. A generous amount was poured into Maleficent’s cup, and she titled it in the agent’s direction.

“Would you like some?” She asked.

Agent Rose glanced in the bartender’s direction, but he just waved. “Your shift is almost over anyway. You’re welcome to try some, but you’ll have to room here tonight. I’m not letting you drive with _noir_ absinthe in your system.”

She thought it over for a moment, then shrugged. _What the hell._ “I’d love to try some, Miss Maleficent.”

“It’s just Maleficent, child,” She said as she poured a smaller amount into the agent’s glass, “And dearest is right, you shouldn’t go _anywhere_ alone after drinking this.”

With the alcohol and the honey, the tea was much more palatable. Sweet, with the slightly bitter aftertaste of the tea itself, and a trace of something that felt almost like sparks on the back of her tongue after each sip.

“This is delicious Maleficent!” Within moments, the cup is empty, and the agent’s mouth is tingling.

“It’s nice to find a fellow absinthe drinker.” Maleficent gestured at the bartender, who was blushing at something Diaval had whispered in his ear. “He’s not much of a drinker of anything but tea – and his homemade tea blends are the best. Another cup child?”

Agent Rose gracefully accepted another doctored drink. “You’re not as scary as I thought you were.”

“Scary? Me?” She put one pale hand on her chest in mock surprise. “Child, I am the very inspiration of nightmares.”

And all Agent Rose could do was laugh.

One more cup of tea turned to two. Then three. Then the agent wasn’t keeping count, but just laughing at the stories her wonderful table companion was telling, consuming everything put before her. She ended up shuffling her chair closer, leaning her head on black coated shoulder.

Stroking the fabric, she asked, “What’s your coat made out of? I want a coat like yours. It looks so warm.” She rubbed her cheek against it, feeling smooth scales that radiated heat like a furnace. “Is it snakeskin? It’s nice.”

Maleficent laughed and handed her another cup of tea. “More like dragonskin child. Would you like a scale coat, or would you prefer feathers? Or maybe fur.”

The agent made a face. “Not fur. Fur makes me sneeze. A whole tribe of people came in last week and they must have bathed in dog hair ‘cause I started sneezing the second they walked in, and they left fur _everywhere_ afterwards.”

Her headrest shook with laughter. “So not fur then. Do you want scales?”

“Hmmmmm…” She closed her eyes for a moment, “Yeah. Yeah, I want a scaly coat. Like yours.” Then she opened her eyes, taking in the now-empty cup, and looked up pitifully. “More tea?”

“Then, dear child, would you like to come with me? I can give you a coat, and a warm place to rest, and as much tea as you’d like.” A warm hand took her empty cup, and she took the chance to wrap both hands around the warm scales.

“Mmmmm. Yes please.”

“Alright then.”

The world seemed to shrink and grow darker. Across the table, Diaval and the bartender seemed to glow in shades of orange and yellow and green. The teapot was glowing too, and the lights around the room grew brighter. The room dropped in temperature, and she hissed as the cold cut through to her bones. A large, warm hand wrapped around her, just behind her head, and suddenly she was wrapped in wonderful warm scales. She hissed in contentment.

Vaguely, she (felt?) heard the bartender talking. “Aren’t you supposed to ask before kidnapping my employees?”

“I’m not kidnapping her. I’ve offered her an alternate place of employment. And look at how pretty she is now.”

Her head was tugged out into the cold and she hissed, twisting in an attempt to get back to the warm place.

“I didn’t know that there were pink snakes.” Diaval said.

“Snow corn snakes can come in pink, but she’s a much nicer shade.” Maleficent stroked her head before tucking her away. “Besides, I will treat her well.”

“Well, she didn’t give me any details of next of kin or friends to contact in an emergency… so I’m not legally obligated to contact anyone about her. But next time, please don’t drug your new pets. I’d rather not be involved.” The bartender said, voice getting distant and harder to hear.

“She’s better off with me anyway… And no promises.” Maleficent said.

Deep in her pocket, curled around herself, Agent Rose was thinking about one thing.

_Mmmmmm…. Waaarrrrmmmm……._

**Author's Note:**

> The Agent isn't impressed by the ghost.   
> Until he is. 
> 
> The first in a one-shot-esque series. There's not going to be too much of a timeline with these, but some things will obviously happen before or after others.


End file.
